


So I'll Curse You

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Implied Torture, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Violence, PTSD, War, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:57:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred adjusts to civilian life. Alfred does not adjust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So I'll Curse You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ March 6, 2011. 
> 
> Warning: Dealings with war, violence, bombings, and PTSD. Please note that the opinions of characters are not necessarily those of the author. 
> 
> This was going to be a more uplifting piece, but I apparently become very morbid at one in the morning. So you get this instead. I was also experimenting with style, so apologies in advance for the disjointedness of this. Also THIS DEALS WITH HEAVY MATERIAL ABOUT WWII. So. Proceed with caution.

Alfred was in all the parties in Europe—he was there in London, he was there in Paris. He was sure he’d gone to every party imaginable, dragged by the wrist by his world-wearied, scarred fighting companions, grinning those wide grins and ordering round after round of drinks. Arthur, in his typical fashion, got drunk off his ass and looped an arm around Alfred’s shoulder to slur some kind of patriot song in his ear. Francis, in his typical fashion, got drunk off his ass and stripped down to nothing. Alfred drank a little, but it only made him feel dizzy—the world was spinning.   
  
But it was different, home. When he went home, he spun through the streets with no one waiting for him. His boys reunited with their loved ones—mothers, fathers, siblings, girlfriends, wives, children. They were waiting for them all.   
  
Alfred felt nothing, though. The streets of old New York seemed distant to him, littered with pieces of confetti, peppered with the kisses of reunited lovers.   
  
He’d spilt so much blood—  
  
He’d broken bones and watched the guts spill—  
  
He’d felt the weight of bombs and shrapnel.   
  
And he’d left it all behind. And yet his mind still lingered.   
  
He wandered.   
  
He wandered through the celebrations—the whooping, the kissing, the waves of relief on every soldier’s face. And Alfred wondered—wondered how he could be the cause, how he could be anything—  
  
How he could feel nothing at all.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Matthew visited him, a few times. Touched at his cheek, very briefly, and recoiling when they both flinched. He could tell, better than anyone else, that Alfred couldn’t sleep well.   
  
Alfred would grin and bear it, when he could. He was good at that, now—though perhaps not with his brother, who made a note to visit more often after their initial visit.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He shipped out to the Pacific soon enough. The war, for him, was not over. VE Day was a distant memory.   
  
He felt the taste of rain against the lip of his helmet. He felt the weight of bombs in his plain as he peered down at the flakes of islands below him. He battled across the Pacific theater, dreamed of the war ending—  
  
—well, it did.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He returned.   
  
The men celebrated in the streets again—but there was too much lost now.   
  
Matthew and Arthur were waiting for him in DC. He hadn’t known they’d be there. Arthur was healing from the years of war and bombings. Matthew was looking taller, sturdier—as if he were not afraid of himself anymore, as if he understood who he was.   
  
Alfred offered a wide smile as he approached them. He watched Matthew frown. He watched something flicker in Arthur’s eyes.   
  
“Hey,” he greeted, and hated how weak his own voice sounded.   
  
Matthew reached out and touched his elbow. Arthur was by his side, taking his bag from him. They walked with him, out to a car waiting at the airport. They drove him to his home.   
  
Matthew was always gentle and caring, if not often exasperated at his brother. But this time, there was only sympathy. Even Arthur, though prickly and gritting his teeth at times, was uncharacteristically quiet and supportive as they helped Alfred settle into his home again.  
  
The entire time he moved, he felt that they should leave—that they didn’t have to be here, that there was no reason for them to be here. He didn’t deserve it—  
  
He didn’t—  
  
As Matthew helped unpack Alfred’s things upstairs, Arthur’s hand touched at the spot on his back between shoulder blades. He cringed, stiffening up. But Arthur did not pull his hand away. He shifted, catching Alfred’s eyes before he could flicker his gaze away.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asked, voice grave.   
  
“Course,” Alfred said. “The war’s over. I’m happy.”  
  
Arthur stared at him. “You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“Course I did—”  
  
“Are you _alright_?” Arthur hissed.   
  
Alfred stepped away, shrugging away from Arthur’s touch. “I should check to see if Mattie needs any help.”  
  
And then he disappeared.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Matthew began to press him, too.   
  
He asked him often if he was alright—pressed him, in a surprisingly firm way. Alfred laughed, as always, brushed him off, as always.   
  
He was fine, he was fine, he was fine—  
  
 _They got what they deserved—_  
  
Matthew had been sympathetic, but had frowned. He’d shook his head, told Alfred he didn’t mean those words.  
  
But of course he did—  
  
 _Why’d he care—  
  
Nobody cared—_  
  
Matthew had made him some coffee. He’d begun to suspect, Alfred believed, that Alfred was not sleeping at night.  
  
Matthew was right.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He was lost.  
  
He couldn’t recognize his own home—he couldn’t recognize the soft sounds of the night in his home. Owls. Crickets. The dusting of fireflies in the air outside his window. Quiet. Silent. Beautiful.   
  
But it was in the silences when the thoughts and memories and realizations returned to him—  
  
It was in the silences when he tried to shout the loudest, if only to drown it all out.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“You aren’t okay,” Arthur told him.   
  
Alfred laughed.   
  
He laughed and he laughed and he laughed—  
  
“You have no idea,” Alfred said. “You have no idea—what you’re talking about.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
 _It’s much worse for him—  
  
It’s much—  
  
It can’t be—  
  
He deserved—  
  
Dream about him every night—  
  
I can’t—_  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Alfred…”  
  
He was fine. He was fine. No weapons touched his mainland. The war was over. Everyone could move on. Of course he hadn’t wanted war—  
  
Of course he—  
  
He was noticing Ivan—Russia—Soviet Union—more and more. It disturbed him. He thought about it at night when he couldn’t bear to think of Japan.   
  
He couldn’t—  
  
  
\---  
  
  
His first birthday after the war ended—  
  
The fireworks were too much. Alfred couldn’t leave his room. He didn’t leave his room—the others had to have noticed. The others had to have known that there was a reason he hadn’t had a party that year.  
  
Matthew banged on the door. Alfred would not open up. The pounding was too loud—  
  
It was too much—  
  
But it got better, it got better. Now he couldn’t hear it over the sound of his breathing, the sound of his shallow breath underneath the covers, fogging his glasses—  
  
  
\---  
  
  
 _My fault my fault my fault—  
  
He didn’t deserve—  
  
He deserved—  
  
Of course I didn’t want war, of course I wanted it to end of course of course of course of course  
  
Of course  
  
Of course…_   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He cursed the air he breathed. He cursed the blood he spilt, the blood he hadn’t spilt. He cursed the lives that had ignited and extinguished so quickly. He cursed it all.   
  
Arthur told him once—quoted Shakespeare once—that life is just a candle. It flickers. It goes out. Out, out, out—  
  
 _Out, out, out—_  
  
He wanted to give it up. All the honey. All the junk. The sky turned blue with his held breath. The world disappeared and shifted and turned.   
  
Matthew pounded on his door. He never answered.  
  
Arthur shouted to him from the window. He never answered.   
  
He needed to be alone. He needed—  
  
He wanted—  
  
He thought too often. Japan and Russia. Germany. England. France. Tunisia. Greece.  
  
He couldn’t.   
  
_Out, out, out._   
  
  
\---  
  
  
They couldn’t understand.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He cursed it all.  
  
He hated it.   
  
He cut himself off. He stopped caring. Cold. Cold. Cold as the winter months creeping under his doorways, creeping upon his threshold.   
  
The day Matthew managed to get inside his house, Alfred hurled a chair at him. He hurled anything he could get his hands on. Matthew had ducked, had dodged, had caught a ceramic mug at the corner of his forehead before he managed to grab Alfred’s wrists, shouting, shouting—  
  
Alfred crumbled. He crumbled, pressed his forehead to Matthew’s shoulder, and clung on like death.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“You were too young,” Arthur whispered, cupping his cheeks, studying his eyes.   
  
Alfred stared back at him, impassive.   
  
Impassive.  
  
No words.   
  
No expression.   
  
Arthur’s expression flickered, crumbled. There was a scar—faint, light, just a touch—against the side of Arthur’s lip. Alfred had never noticed it before. He noticed it now, in startling detail. There was scars all across Arthur’s body now. Alfred had scars, too. Matthew had scars. None of them would have scars like Japan, though. No one else had scars like his, no one else but Alfred had given those scars.   
  
His hand lifted. He touched Arthur’s wrist. He pulled it away.   
  
“I’m not young.”   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- [PTSD support.](http://www.ptsdsupport.net/index.html) This is a great website to provide lots of insight, explanation, support, and inspiration for those suffering from PTSD.


End file.
